


Mundane – Glimpses of a Moment

by koalathebear



Category: Homeland
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Gen, No Plot/Plotless, non-canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-03 19:14:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 13,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2875532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koalathebear/pseuds/koalathebear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired after I wrote a response to the <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2808836">Domesticity Meme</a>.  Carrie and Quinn have such crazy lives that it's hard to imagine them being together in every day normal life but hey … let's see how I go … I find the mundane very romantic sometimes ...</p><p>These are plotless glimpses into mundane moments of Carrie/Quinn's life together in some fluffy, non-canon future untampered by evil writers... :)</p><p>If you are enjoying these, SourCherryBlossom is also writing prompts from the meme.  Her fics are <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2953883/chapters/6529367">here</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Morning Coffee

**Author's Note:**

  * For [enjoyingjoy](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=enjoyingjoy).



> This series is dedicated to [enjoyingjoy](http://enjoyingjoy.tumblr.com/), a fandom kindred spirit who understands my post-finale blues :) 
> 
> She wrote: _"After seeing glimpses of light, of what might be, it's hard to go back to the darkness, to uncertainty, questions and danger. I can't face the possibility of Q not coming back. I just can't. So, these fluffy stories keep me from going there on my own. Maybe I could go there if you write it someday? Maybe?"_
> 
> Thus, while my natural tendency for these two heads towards angst, I'm going to try to maintain the fluffy as well :) Feel free to throw mundane scenarios/prompts at me :)

He doesn't open his eyes but can hear the sound of the blinds being adjusted. The beam of sunlight that had been beating down on his face disappears and he can sense the brightness of the room being lowered. Outside he can hear the sounds of the city, but it's their day for sleeping in.

His lips curve into a smile as she returns to the bed. His eyes flicker open for a moment, just long enough to see her sit at his side, her legs curled up beneath her as she watches him sleep. He feels Carrie's soft mouth press a kiss to his jaw as her hand cups his face, his lips trailing down his unshaven cheek lingeringly.

"I know you're awake, Quinn," she whispers with a smile in her voice.

"Yeah, you just woke me up with your coffee breath," he teases her.

"Better than your morning breath," she teases him, her mouth sliding down his throat to nip sharply at his tender skin before continuing its leisurely journey down his body. To his disappointment, she contents herself with pressing a final kiss on his flat stomach and mumbling.

"Drink your coffee before it gets cold."

He opens his eyes and discovers that she's curled up against his side, drowsy and pliant. Reaching out, he picks up the mug of coffee she's placed on his bedside table and he takes a swallow, enjoying the hot bitterness on his tongue. 

When he puts the mug down, she snuggles against him contentedly, almost purring like a kitten. He smiles, brushing the hair from her face and closing his eyes.


	2. Pickle Jar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a stubborn jar of pickles ... hey I said mundane ...

Quinn stands in the kitchen, leaning against the bench, watching Carrie with a smile on his face. Like him, she's still dressed in her work clothes, having headed straight in to the kitchen after they get home.

"I can cook tonight," he tells her but she insists that it's her turn and he's already done two nights in a row and is after something simple tonight instead of that fancy shit he keeps making. 

She pulls off her jacket, throwing it over the back of a chair and he admires the way her breasts strain against her plain linen blouse as she reaches up for the cutting board.

She's telling him about her day, her face very distracted, brows in a deep frown as she mentions some dumb-ass decision that the Director has made. She picks up a jar of pickles and twists at the lid, her frown deepening when it refuses to open.

"…and I told him, just like I told him yesterday and the day before that that it was absolutely the last thing he should do …" she recounts, struggling with the stubborn lid.

"Did he listen?" Quinn asks, watching as she swears beneath her breath and runs the jar of pickles under hot water before trying again without success.

"Well what do you think, Quinn? Did I do the right thing?" she demands, turning her head towards him and rolling her eyes as she reaches for a rubber glove to try to use that to open the recalcitrant jar that simply will not yield.

"He'll do what he wants, he always does, Carrie," Quinn reminds her.

"Doesn't mean I have to like it… _goddamn fuck these fucking pickles_ ," Carrie mutters as the jar still refuses to allow itself to be opened. She turns around and glares as Quinn holds his hand out to her, a smile quirking his mouth.

"I can do it, damnit," she tells him, her mouth twitching into a matching smile.

"I can see you're about to escalate to using a hammer so for the sake of our dinner – and cleaning up a mess - just let me open it," he suggests.

She puts the jar into his waiting hand and stands, hands on hips with a very resigned expression on her face.

With one twist he opens the jar easily and hands it back to her.

"You're welcome," he drawls, trying not to look smug.

"Big bad CIA tough guy wants me to praise him for opening a jar of pickles?" she asks him. "It's why I keep you around," she tells him as she puts the jar on the counter. 

That makes him laugh and he reaches out and draws her towards him. She goes into his arms willingly, pressing her cheek against his shirt-front. He gives excellent hugs. "That and the fact that you are very good at repairing things – and your command of Arabic really doesn't hurt either."

"Really? Those are the only reasons you keep me around, Carrie?" he asks her, his voice dropping low as his hand reaches up to trace the curve of her breast. The sound of Franny crying makes them break apart as Quinn grins at her before he leaves the room to check on the baby.

"Oh and you have a cute ass, that's another reason to keep you around," she calls out after him.


	3. Crumpled Shirts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crumpled, rumpled shirts are actually kind of hot ...

On the days when they're not running late for work, she makes sure he wears an ironed shirt and painstakingly does up the buttons of his shirt, knotting his tie for him as stands there with a tolerant expression on his face.

Every day without fail, he returns home with his tie shoved into his pocket, his shirt sleeves rolled up, and his jacket and shirt crumpled.

"What the fuck do you do?" she demands. "Take it off, scrunch it up and put it back on again?" she demands, inspecting his crumpled shirt with dismay and staring at the top two buttons of his shirt which as usual, have miraculously become unbuttoned.

"It just happens," he tries to tell her unconvincingly.

She threatens to put snap buttons on the inside of his shirt to stop the top two buttons from 'just happening'. 

"This does not just happen," she tells him, touching the exposed skin with an unpainted fingertip. "This is clearly an opportunity for the people in the office to perve on your chest."

"I see," Quinn replies, an eyebrow lifted quizzically. 

"Not sure what's next – gold chains and bling with the unbuttoned shirt?" she questions, her fingertip moving along his skin slowly.

"Not the look I was going for," he counters, reaching down to unbutton the top two buttons of her blouse.

"Good … you're lucky I kind of find the geek chic look a little bit sexy."

"Just a little bit?" he questions, sliding her blouse off of her shoulders and pushing her back against the wall so that he can drop to his knees before her.

"Shut up Quinn. We can sort out the laundry later."


	4. Office Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Office sex. It had to happen ...
> 
> In which Quinn returns from a work trip and bangs Carrie like a screen door in a hurricane and she bangs him right back - in her office.
> 
> Explicit, so please don't read if underaged or squeamish.

"Hey."

She looks up and smiles to see him standing in the doorway of her office. As usual, his tie is stuffed in the pocket of his jacket and his shirt is rumpled. He looks a little tired and his hair is tousled.

The sight of his lean unshaven jaw reminds her of how his rough stubble feels against her skin … against her cheek, her breasts … scraping her inner thighs. The memory causes a familiar ache to throb between her thighs and she shifts uncomfortably in her chair. She wishes that they could both be at home in bed right now … his strong body pinning her to the mattress as he goes at her hard …

"Hey yourself," she greets him. "I didn't know you were back today – I would have picked you up from the airport," she remarks, rising to her feet and walking over towards him.

"Caught the red-eye ...came straight here by cab instead of going home first," he tells her. "Missed you – just a little bit," he tells her and she laughs, allowing herself to be pulled into his arms. Their mouths meet in a kiss that starts out light and friendly but quickly changes in tone. 

With her body demanding much more, she reluctantly pulls away. “We can't – we're at work," she protests, even as she gives him a longing look before heading back to her desk.

Too late, she hears the door of her office shut and lock. She spins around. “Quinn,” she says in a warning tone as he closes the blinds of her office.

"Carrie," he replies, mimicking her tone. "Just keep it quiet and we'll be fine – can you manage that?"

Before she can say a word, he has his arm around her waist, the other around her upper back and he's lowering his head for another kiss. A deep, hungry one that makes her moan as she pushes herself up against his erection provocatively.

He makes a sound of approval, sliding his hand under her blouse to palm her breast. She starts to push him away but then her hands drop down to the buckle of his belt. He grins.

"Go on," he encourages her. "Unless you're chicken," he teases.

As she fumbles with his clothing, his hand drop down to help her and then he slides his hands down to unbutton her slacks and slide her underwear down her legs. 

“For my clarification - are we intending to go all the way here?” he asks her, stepping out of his trousers and boxers. “Full sex or just some intense petting with heavy breathing?" 

With a small hop, she gets onto her desk. "Fuck petting, you started this - do me now, Quinn," she orders him.

That makes him laugh and he leans down and puts his hands on her knees, parting her thighs. She gasps his name as he lowers his head and goes for it. She bites down on her hand to muffle the sound of her cries at the first touch of his tongue. She closes her eyes and lets her head fall back in pure pleasure. 

A residual moment of rationality has her panicking when she remembers where they are but then all reason vanishes as his skilful mouth and tongue completely disable her brain's ability to function. His stubble-roughened cheeks scratch against her sensitive flesh in sharp contrast to the slickness of his clever and probing tongue. A low moan escapes her as he nips the swollen flesh of her clit playfully.

Eventually she loses any ability to control herself and collapses flat on her back onto her desk. Her head hangs off the edge as she strains to find release. Quinn grips her hip with one hand and is fondling her breast with the other. Her hips rock against his mouth as she gasps louder.

She arches hard and bites down on her hand again as the climax hits her. As her body twitches with pleasure, he stays with her, licking, sucking, his hands holding her thighs in place. She is still coming down from her high when he steps between her thighs.

"You look fucking sexy … but you need to be more quiet, Carrie," he reminds her with a wolfish grin on his face, his lips damp and his face flushed. His pupils are dilated with arousal, contrasting sharply to the light grey of his irises. Perspiration beads his upper lip.

He keeps his eyes locked with hers as he slowly enters her. "Ah fuck," she moans as he puts one hand on the desk, slides in further, then pulls back.

"Come back damnit," she orders him and he laughs, thrusting again and withdrawing in shallow strokes. Finally he buries himself deep inside of her. She pulls him down, cups his face in her hands so that she can kiss him. He puts his arm around her so that he can keep thrusting.

"Oh you feel so fucking good," he says between clenched teeth before pressing a hard kiss against her mouth.

"No, it's all you," she gasps.

"And you didn't want to play at first," he teases her, his voice hoarse with lust. He stops thrusting abruptly.

"What the fuck, Quinn?" she demands. He pulls out of her with a grin, lifting her up, turning her around and bending her over the desk before he thrusts into her again. She almost comes immediately. His hips slam against her so hard that the desk rattles and she almost screams in pleasure.

"Sssshh, Carrie," he tells her, his voice trembling with laughter and arousal. It feels incredible and she pushes back against him. He grips her hips and increases the force of his thrusts, pounding at her faster as she struggles very hard not to let the whole building know what they are doing. 

The wood of the table is hard against her skin but she doesn't care. All she cares about is that Quinn doesn't stop doing _this_ until she comes again. His clever hand reaches down and touches her between her thighs and she almost screams as the pleasure multiplies.

She comes again, this time unable to hold back a cry of pleasure so he has to put his hand across her mouth to muffle the sound. "Geez, Carrie."

Then as she gasps through her climax, he grips her hips hard and thrusts even harder. “Fuck,” he gasps as he reaches his own release.

Carrie tries to catch her breath unsuccessfully. Her body is still pulsing from her climax. Releasing her, Quinn leans forward and kisses her shoulder, her neck.

“That was amazing. You’re amazing.”

She remembers where she is and her eyes widen. "Holy shit," she mutters. With a gentle push, she gets him to pull out and grabs a handful of Kleenex to wipe away the stickiness.

They dress quickly and in silence.

The office smells musky with sex and she shakes her head incredulously.

He pulls her back in his arms for one last kiss, lingering and tender.

"I can't believe we just did that," she tells him breathlessly. "It's crazy."

"No it's not," he tells her softly, tracing the smoothness of her cheek with his fingertip. "I'll see you back at home," he tells her. She nods. "Want me to pick up Franny from daycare on the way?" he asks and she nods again. He smiles and walks out of her office with a spring in his step. By contrast, her legs are so shaky she can barely stand. 

She hopes that the rumours of hidden cameras in offices is completely groundless ...


	5. Don't Call Me Babe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I keep seeing people on tumblr saying they want Quinn to call Carrie 'babe'. This is my take on it.

They don't do pet names. It doesn't feel natural. Carrie doesn't even call him Peter. It's always Quinn. Sometimes she teasingly refers to him as her Chief of Support or her man at arms, but he's Quinn to her – it would feel awkward, even strange to call him anything else. 

There are the occasional slip-ups though.

Quinn's in the study assembling the new bookshelves. "Could you hand me the screwdriver, babe?" he asks her absently as he studies the instructions.

She looks up from where she is playing with Franny. "The fuck, Quinn – did you just call me babe?" she demands, handing him the screw driver.

He considers the question for a moment. "It's possible," concedes.

"I am not a talking pig," she tells him.

"I cannot argue with that statement," he agrees, putting up another shelf.

*

For Franny's first birthday they host a barbecue and Quinn controls the tongs and the barbecue manfully. In his jeans and plaid shirt, you'd never know just from looking at him that suburbia isn't his original milieu.

It's a hot day and everyone's sweating, clothing sticking to skin and as Carrie walks past carrying a tray of drinks, she asks him casually,"D'you want a beer, hon?"

Quinn's eyes widen as Carrie stops in her tracks, horror dawning in her eyes.

"Did you just call me, hon?" he demands.

"No," she lies shamelessly. "I'd never do that."

"I see," he says, tilting his head in the way he does that tells her he doesn't believe the shit she's dishing up.

"I um … maybe h-u-n," she elaborates, digging a deeper hole for herself.

"I see. Any reason why you suddenly decide to call me a member of a nomadic and warlike Asian people who devastated or controlled large parts of eastern and central Europe in the 5th century A.D.?" he asks her mildly.

"Take your damned beer," she tells him, stuffing the beer in his hand. "Keep that up and I'll call you a hell of a lot worse."

He takes revenge by giving her burnt onions with her sausages.

The party-goers pretend they hear nothing. The exchange does nothing to contradict the neighbourhood's view that Peter and Carrie are "such a lovely couple – but just very odd sometimes…"


	6. The Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes. That Letter. This is my take on it - Mundane style. I have an angsty one that I'm still working on.

Quinn comes across the letter one day when he's going through one of the drawers in the study, looking for a pen that works. He stares at it fixedly for a moment before walking out to the family room where Carrie's reading a report and Franny is crawling around in her play pen.

"I found this," he tells her.

"What is it?" she asks and then realises what he's holding. "Oh, that."

"It's unopened." There's a question in his voice as he turns it over in his hands.

"Yeah," she says briefly, looking away to avoid meeting his gaze. "Told the guy who delivered it to go and fuck himself as well."

"You didn't want to read what I wrote?" he asks, more curious than hurt.

She stands up and walks across the room towards him. She takes the letter out of his hand. "I knew you'd come back," she tells him. 

He stares at her. "You're trembling," he observes neutrally and his hand reaches up to cup her face. Her eyes are shining with unshed tears. 

"Shit," he says inadequately. "I'm sorry, Carrie."

She puts the letter on the desk and buries her face in his shirt-front. He smells of shaving lotion, soap and Quinn. "I told him that unless there's a body, there was no fucking way you were not coming back to me," she says in a muffled voice. His fingers tangle in her hair, stroking her soothingly.

"Incurably romantic as always, babe," he teases her deliberately.

"I am not a talking pig," she replies automatically, voice still muffled and he presses a kiss to the top of her head and smiles his rueful smile.


	7. Parking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes. This is about parking the car ...

"Don't start, Carrie," Quinn tells her warningly as he enters the car park, scanning the car park of the shopping centre for empty spaces.

"I didn't say anything, Quinn," she protested loudly. "Although there's a spot just over there," she mutters _sotto voce_.

"Jesus Carrie – do you want to drive instead?" he demands.

"I'm just being helpful," she retorts. "And for your information I'd be happy to drive."

"Except that the number of car accidents you've been involved far outnumbers my accidents," he points out.

"Come on Quinn, none of those accidents have been my fault," she argues. 

Quinn finds a spot and glides in smoothly.

"Don't say it, Carrie," he warns her.

She slants a smile at him and turns around, pretending to talk to her daughter. "Hey Franny, I guess daddy didn't see the closer spot by the entrance, huh?"

Quinn's still smiling as he gets out of the car to retrieve the baby.


	8. Burglary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The house is broken into by burglars ...

Carrie's eyes snap open in fright, staring into the darkness into Quinn's fierce eyes. His hand is covering her mouth.

"Don't make a sound," he tells her softly. "Just listen." 

She can hear the sound of someone moving around downstairs. Her eyes widen and the thump of her rapid heartbeat becomes very loud in her ears. "I heard the sound of glass breaking – they've come in through the kitchen," he tells her.

"Franny…" she whispers and he nods. "Take your phone, go to her room and hide in the closet." 

She waits while he opens the safe in the bedroom and loads her Beretta, handing it to her. For himself, he debates between the Glock 17 and the SIG-Sauer P226 E2, in the end, deciding on the Glock.

"Quinn – try not to kill anyone," she whispers. He rolls his eyes at her. "Quinn – wait …" she says urgently.

"What now Carrie?" he demands impatiently.

"Try not to get killed," she tells him. "You always hear about people trying to be heroic and getting killed in home invasions or corner store hold-up jobs ... be careful. Franny needs her dad."

"Geez, Carrie – now is not the time," he hissed.

"I need you, too," she tells him and kisses him hard on the mouth. He stares at her, stunned as she quickly and silently goes into Franny's room. 

Picking up Franny and holding her against her chest, she gets into the closet. "I need to report a burglary," she whispers into the phone after calling 911.

The house is very quiet and she shushes her daughter who makes a small sound of protest. Suddenly Quinn's voice calls out.

"It's safe Carrie – you can come down now." There's a pause and he calls out. "Titanium!" to let her know that he's not under duress.

Going downstairs, the lights are on and she walks into the kitchen.

"Careful, there's broken glass," Quinn warns her and she notices the broken glass in the door and on the floor. 

On the ground, hands and feet trussed up like turkeys are two young men, a discarded knife and a sawn off shot gun lying on the ground – kicked a safe distance away by Quinn. Both are groaning in pain.

"Police are on the way, Quinn," she tells him, staring at Quinn who is standing there, tousle-haired, angry-eyed in his white t-shirt, blue-striped pyjama bottoms and bare feet looking like the warrior he is.

"I've cleared the rest of the house – it's just these two. Meet asshole 1 and asshole 2," Quinn told her grimly.

"Fuck you," one of them muttered angrily, his face contorted in pain.

"Are you ok?" she asks Quinn, checking him out for any injuries.

"Yeah, I'm good," he tells her. The knife and shotgun had given him pause at first but he'd been able to disable the guy with the shotgun first and the guy with the knife was easier to disarm after that. Neither had put up much of a fight.

"Should I call for an ambulance, too?" Carrie asks.

"Yeah – both have broken arms and that one – I snapped his collarbone," Quinn tells her mildly.

When the police arrive, they survey the situation with bemusement. "You appear to have done all of our work for us, Mr Quinn," the uniformed policeman remarks. "I’m guessing you have a licence to carry that?" 

"Yes although it hasn't been fired tonight," Quinn tells him coolly.

The policeman studies the two burglars who were being pulled to their feet by one of the other policemen. "I guess these two really picked the wrong house to break into."

*

Carrie yawns widely and peers up as the kitchen door opened. She and Quinn had cleared up the glass and splinters as soon as the police had given the all clear and he had immediately gone out to buy replacement glass and locks.

"What the - ?" Quinn demands staring at the kitchen table and the benches that were overflowing with every variation of cake, casserole, lasagne, meat loaf and cookies known to man.

"Tales of your heroism have leaked, Quinn," she tells him sardonically as he leans over to kiss her briefly and also Franny, who sits on her lap at the kitchen table. "The neighbours are showering you with gratitude," she says, gesturing at all the food.

"And what's that?" he demands warily, staring at the pile of papers on the kitchen table as he props the door open so that he can remove the old glass.

"You going to do it all yourself?" she asks him curiously and he looks mildly offended.

"Of course."

"Sorry for impugning your manhood, geez," she apologises exaggeratedly. He grins and lifts his toolbox onto the kitchen bench. Carrie puts Franny in her high chair to go and brew a cup of coffee for Quinn.

"You didn't tell me what all the papers were," he comments.

"So apparently there were three other robberies on our street last night and thanks to you, they've all managed to recover their stuff."

"That's great … and?" he asks her with deep foreboding in his voice.

Carrie smiles. "You've been voted – by unanimous vote I might add – to be the street's neighbourhood watch coordinator!"

"Holy shit," Quinn mutters in disbelief. "Thanks," he tells her as she puts a mug of coffee next to him.

"But wait, there's more," she tells him with mildly malicious glee in her voice.

"Go on," he urges.

"The local recreation centre has asked you to come and give a demonstration for their women's self-defence class," Carrie tells him with a grin.

"This is not funny," he tells her reprovingly.

Carrie laughs and goes to pick up Franny from her high chair. "Franny and I will come and watch daddy show off his muscles – won't we? Won't we?" she coos and helps Franny punch the air with her tiny fists.

"Hmm, not bad," Quinn remarks critically as Franny smacks him in the nose with her flying fist. "Some potential there."

"Quinn, you are not going to teach martial arts to our infant daughter."

"Not until she's older," he promises and puts his arms around them both. Despite all the banter, he is filled with relief at that thought that they are both safe.


	9. Whale Watcher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is so not a serious one but mytimeoftheyear left a comment on the 'Burglary' section and this bit in particular made me laugh:
> 
>  
> 
> _"I would love to read more fics where [Quinn] puts his skills to use in mundane life... I dunno, like their next door neighbor gets locked out of the house. They go whale watching and the tour guide doesn't spot any whales. The electricity goes out during a storm and they have to eat tuna from the can."_

_Whitsundays Queensland, Australia_

Carrie looked around at the despondent group of whale watchers on the small boat, staring around at the empty waters.

The brochures had informed them that that every year from May to September humpback whales made the waters in and around the Whitsunday Islands their home and that because the waters are shallow, sheltered and warm it is the ideal calving ground and nursery for newborn whales. 

_"Humpback whales can be seen amongst the islands, and occasionally on the Great Barrier Reef, with their young."_

"Look I'm sorry, these are wild animals – we can't guarantee they're going be out here, mate," Colin the guide was telling one of the bitterly disappointed tourists.

"I think there's going to be a mutiny in a moment," Carrie whispered to Franny who was oblivious to the lack of whales and appeared to be more than happy just to enjoy the sea breeze and the sunlight.

Quinn didn't reply, he was busy squinting through his spotter-scope at the tranquil blue waters around them. 

"Geez Quinn – you brought your spotting scope on our holiday?" Carrie demanded, staring at him incredulously. "Seriously?"

"Hey, what are you complaining about, I left the Galil at home, didn't I?" he joked. The light-hearted tone vanished. "Colin – three klicks south of our position," he announced to the guide who blinked in astonishment and picked up his binoculars and squinted at the horizon.

"Thank God," Colin muttered in relief. Any longer and the tourists would have been wanting to throw him overboard. The last time he'd taken a disappointed group back, a Japanese tourist had beat him around the head with her Burberry handbag. "Don't suppose you want a job, mate?" Colin demanded and Quinn choked.

"Who says you have no marketable skills?" Carrie asked him with a grin.


	10. Routines: Morning and Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chaseangela gave me this prompt: "what is carrie and quinn's nighttime routine (or morning routine)."
> 
> In the [Domesticity Meme response](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2808836), I wrote this:
> 
>  **What is the morning routine?**  
>  The alarm goes off and one or both of them swear. Whoever turns off the alarm, rolls over, kisses the other one good morning and then heads off to the bathroom first
> 
> *  
> Here's an expansion of that! :)

_Morning_

The alarm rings, loud and clamorous.

"You!" Quinn calls out seconds before Carrie manages to call out: "You!" 

"Fuck," she mutters face down into her pillow. "That's like the third day in a row."

"Sorry," he says unapologetically, his eyes still closed. She rolls over on top of him to reach out and turn off the alarm.

"Am I in your way?" he asks sleepily and she smiles, lowers her head and kisses him good morning. She rests her lips on the warm skin of his bare chest for a moment but when his hands come up to rest on her ass, almost inviting her to continue, she shakes her head laughingly.

Climbing out of bed, she heads off to the main bathroom and goes to check on Franny. In seconds, Quinn's on his feet, too and heads to the en suite before making his way to the kitchen to put on the coffee.

"Can you make mine stronger today? We've got a really long meeting first thing this morning," Carrie calls out from Franny's room.

"Fuck – I forgot it was the Division meeting."

"Did you forget you were presenting?" she asks and he groans. 

"I'll wing it," he tells her. "What's it about again?"

"Latest chatter on heroin trafficking in Iran."

"My favourite topic," he mutters, staring down at the coffee machine. He walks over to Franny's room and reaches out to take a freshly changed Franny from Carrie so that she can take a sip of her coffee.

"Good morning, small human child," he greets her. She da da's him in a way he always finds ridiculously delightful and while Carrie went off to shower and get ready for work, he gets Franny dressed and then hands her back to Carrie when she emerges from the bathroom, damp-haired, make-up freshly applied.

"The pink again?" she asks with a frown. "You know redheads aren't supposed to wear pink ..."

"What can I say, Franny's like me – she doesn't live by the rules," he tells her before he goes off to shower and shave.

The morning news is on in the kitchen and they move past one another to nibble on toast, eat cereal while trying to feed Franny and keep an eye on the news at the same time. The kitchen is large enough that they don't have to keep brushing past one another when they pass, but they do anyway ... fingertips touching, a gentle bump out of the way ...

"Message from Lockhart – he wants to see the both of us tonight after work," Carrie tells him.

"Fuck," Quinn muttered. "It's probably about Martha's statement. She really needs to dump that sack of shit of a husband of hers." 

"Don't talk to me about Dennis," Carrie frowns. Hatred and loathing are an understatement when it comes to describing how they feel about Dennis Boyd. Were it not for his treasonous actions, the slaughter in Islamabad would not have been possible. The man had a lot to answer for. "I feel sorry for Martha – fancy being married to _that_."

In a flurry of activity, bags, baby, cell phones are whisked up and rush out the door.

"Carrie – did you lock the door?"

"Yes. Don't you believe me?" she demands irritably. "Just get in the car," she orders him and surreptitiously double-checks that the door is locked before she slides into the passenger's seat.

*

_Night_

Tonight's dinner is a quick one. Franny eats her dinner without too much mess and they quickly discuss the day's events at work before they wash up, listening to the evening news as they do so.

"Trash is full – "

"Consider it done," Quinn tells her as he lifts up the bag. "Even though I'm pretty sure it's your turn – but because I'm such a great guy – "

"And noble,' she says sarcastically. After he comes back, they bathe Franny. He's still nervous about doing it on his own and so it's a joint enterprise when it's his turn. 

"Come on, it's easy," she encourages him but he's pale and almost shaking the first time she does it, so she stays at his side while he's still on his baby bathing learner's permit. As usual, they emerge from that activity drenched from head to toe.

Whoever's working will go the study but tonight they're both exhausted after a long day of meetings and internal agency wrangling so fall into bed in a heap, Carrie draped bonelessly on top of Quinn as he strokes her back absently, occasionally pressing a kiss to her cheek or the top of her head. His hands stroke in soothing circles. 

They both still get nightmares and both have to endure sessions with the agency shrink – sessions that they both find totally worthless but for him, it is _this_ that has been his road to recovery … lying in bed, listening to the sound of Carrie's breathing and holding her close.


	11. A Real and Serious Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chaseangela gave me this prompt: "a real and serious fight"

"Carrie." His voice is low when she comes back in the house after having stormed out a few hours ago.

"Get the _fuck_ out of my way," she tells him stiffly, refusing to look at him. "Where's Franny?"

"I dropped her off at Maggie's – I've been driving everywhere looking for you. Where the fuck were you?" he demands, his eyes dark with worry and fury.

"Oh great, so now she knows all about - _this!_ " Carrie says, shaking her head at him, trembling with anger. "Thanks for dragging my sister into our private lives, Quinn," she tells him and storms into the bathroom.

She comes out a few seconds later. "Go on, Quinn – go and count them if you don't fucking believe me!" He doesn't move as she throws something at him. The colourful mix of valproate and olanzapine tablets hit his chest and then drop to the ground.

He exhales slowly and then crouches down to start picking up her medication. "Say something," she demands. "Damn you, say something." Her eyes are shining with tears and she is flushed with frustration. "Don't pick them up," she tells him as she tries to pull at his arm. He rises to his feet as she struggles against him, fists flying, mouth swearing, face contorted with rage.

His arms wrap around her, pressing her firmly to his chest and then he sits down on the sofa with her, holding her against him, his face grim and shuttered. He holds her until the swearing stops, until she stops struggling and until her breathing quietens. Then the sobbing starts.

Finally, she slumps limply in his arms, tired and exhausted. "I'm sorry, Carrie," he tells her gently.

"I know I'm sick, Quinn," she tells him. "But sometimes a bad day is just a bad day … it doesn't mean I'm off my meds …"

"I know … you just seemed … elevated," he explains in a low voice. "I needed to check."

Unfortunately, as Maggie has explained, sometimes questioning about her meds and making her angry, can trigger an episode out of what was probably ordinary frustration and nothing to do with her illness.

"I think I fucked up, Maggie," he had told her when he had dropped Franny off with her.

"Don't be too hard on yourself. You'll learn to read the signs better, Peter," Maggie had told him gently. "It's easy to assume that every expression of extreme emotion is tied to her illness – sometimes it's just emotion. Sometimes the high energy, the creativity, the irritability is the illness – sometimes it's just Carrie herself …"

"She seemed … manic," he had told her.

"Extreme stress, extreme emotion can still punch past the mood stabilisers … times like that she needs to take a breath, sit back and try to calm herself. If she doesn't, then it can very well trigger an actual episode and once it does become an all-out episode, then she'll have to be hospitalised. It's a very, very fine line being balanced by her – and you – all the time, Peter."

"Yeah, I get that," he had replied.

"It's not an easy condition to live with, Peter – I know this," she had told him sympathetically.

Quinn's eyes kindled. "Are you asking me if I'm up to it? I went into this with my eyes open – I know who she is."

"She's lucky to have you – it's a lot of strain to put on any relationship …"

"There are no easy relationships, Maggie," Quinn had told her with a rueful smile and she had hugged him before he had gone back out to his car to look for Carrie.

"So are we good?" Quinn asks Carrie finally and she nods, rests her head against his chest and closes her eyes.

"Yeah, we're good," she tells him quietly."

*

That evening and the next morning, she makes a point of taking her meds in front of him. She's never done that before. She's always done it in private, kept it to herself like a dark and shameful secret.

His jaw tenses and a muscle twitches in his throat. 

Carrie opens her mouth to show him that she has swallowed the tablets. "Shit Carrie - no ... you don't have to do this …" he says, his voice hoarse with emotion and his eyes dark with regret.

"Yeah I do, Quinn," she tells him gently. "For better or worse, this is me … and I want you be able to know when it's my condition and when it's just … normal fucked up me …"

He pulls her against him, cupping her face as he kisses her softly, lingeringly. Comfort turns to arousal and she starts unbuttoning his shirt and backs her against the kitchen wall, his hands unzipping her jeans.

"Got a tablet for all my fucked up shit?" he asks her she gives a gasp of pleasure when his clever fingers find her.

"Not a tablet in the world that can fix what's wrong with you, Quinn," she teases him and then all talking is abandoned as he thrusts into her and she is incapable of saying anything except his name.


	12. Shacking Up Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chaseangela gave me this prompt: "how did Quinn first move in with Frannie and Carrie?"
> 
> In the [Domesticity Meme](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2808836) response, I wrote this:
> 
>  **How did they start living together?**  
>  After the Syria mission, Quinn starts spending more and more time at Carrie's house until she clears out the space in her drawers and wardrobe and he just moves in – his generic and anonymous dwelling places a thing of the past. 
> 
> *
> 
> Here's an expansion of that! :)

Carrie pulls into the car park of the motel and looks around curiously. It's a typical generic, faceless motel, devoid of character and warmth.

Quinn's waiting for her in the car park, dressed casually in faded jeans and a black pullover. His backpack is slung over his shoulder. She walks over to him and he lowers his head down to kiss her. "Thanks for the ride – car won't be ready till Monday at the earliest they tell me. Shall we go?" 

"I don't get a tour of your home?" she asks him and he stares at her with an odd expression on his face.

"It's a motel, Carrie."

"Where you've lived for almost a fucking year," she points out. "Come on, show me around," she insists, looping her arm through his. They walk into out of the car park into the pool area. "So this is the famous pool where you throw empty bottles while drunk … also your cell, I believe."

"Uh – yeah … it's a real tourist attraction," he mutters.

They walk down the dingy corridor till they get to his room. He opens the door to let her go through first. She looks around the Spartan hotel room curiously.

"So this is the room where you banged your landlady."

"Hotel manager and … shit, Carrie did I really tell you all that?" he demands in disbelief. "There's sharing and there's over-sharing."

She wanders through the empty rooms, staring at the almost empty kitchen and then into the bedroom which is almost devoid of signs of occupation except for the small photograph beside the bed. It's a low-res photo of her holding Franny, both laughing at the camera.

"I don't remember this photo," she comments.

"Printed it off my cell phone …"

She stares around the bedroom, hands on hips and Quinn stares at her curiously. "What's on your mind, Carrie?" he asks her.

"I'm thinking you should leave some of your stuff at my place, Quinn."

*

At first it's just some clothes and shoes … his razor and some of his toiletries … 

Then he starts staying at Carrie's every other night and weekends. He does all the repairs around the place as well, fixing things that have been ignored by Carrie ... baby-proofing the place. He ends sharing the load in terms of chores - he cleans the bathroom better than Carrie does although she does an ok job with the kitchen.

Time passes and Carrie starts clearing more and more room in her cupboards and drawers for him and his clothes end up in the washing machine, dryer and laundry basket along with hers and Franny's.

Then his socks, shirts and t-shirts start to go missing because Carrie's wearing them.

Finally he's standing at the front desk of the motel handing in his keys and getting his deposit back.

"Hey," Eden tells him with a faint smile as she watches him sign for his deposit.

"I feel like I owe you some of this," he tells her. "Given how good you were about trying to keep the place tidy…"

Eden's pretty red hair falls around her face in a cloud and she shrugs. "Nah, consider it a parting gift."

"You look good – happy," she tells him finally. It was true. The hollow-eyed, haunted-looking man with desperation on his face was gone and in his place was someone completely different. She felt a pang … this version of Peter Quinn didn't need her at all.

"Thanks, you too," he compliments her and he means it. He clears his throat awkwardly. "Look – uh – about …"

She held up a hand. "No, seriously Peter it's ok … we were never gonna be a long-term thing … that's fine. I'm glad to see that you're doing well. I'm guessing that's Carrie's influence?"

He shrugged. "Maybe … probably … " He thought about it a bit longer. "Definitely."

She came around his side of the counter to hug him and kiss him goodbye. "Take care of yourself, Eden," he tells her sincerely and she watches him leave, annoyed with herself for feeling a sense of loss over someone she never had in the first place.


	13. Commercialised Celebrations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chaseangela gave me this prompt: mother's day (or father's day)
> 
> I've written about [Valentine's Day before](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1185710). This is my take on what they think about comercialised days of celebration …

It's hard to say which of Quinn or Carrie finds manufactured days of celebration like Valentine's Day, Mother's Day, Father's Day and the like more repugnant.

Valentine's Day in particular draws their ire. "Commercialised fucking bullshit," Carrie mutters as they walk past another flower stand in the mall. "If you ever give me a chocolate rose – "

"Agreed," Quinn says tersely, scowling at the elaborate chocolate boxes and bouquets.

Franny Quinn initially grows up wondering why her family's the only one whose family celebrates days like 8 May, the World Health Assembly confirmation of the global eradication of smallpox, instead of Mother's Day.

She's the only kid in class whose parents don't celebrate Father's Day but honour 22 June, the end of the American Civil War and the enforcement of the Emancipation Proclamation to end slavery

"So – your parents don't celebrate Valentine's Day?" Harrison Myers asks curiously as a six year old Franny declines a rose.

"Nope, Franny replies wrinkling her nose. "We do celebrate 9 November, the day the Berlin Wall fell, though," she tells him. "Oh, and 20 August."

"What happened then?" 

"That's the day the Nineteenth Amendment became part of the U.S. Constitution confirming that women would not be denied the vote on the basis of their sex – that's when mum and dad give each other a [yellow rose](http://www.lwvokaloosa.org/YellowRose.html).

"But why?" Harrison demanded blankly.

"Dunno, my parents are weird," Franny says with a shrug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Great video in honour of women's suffrage in the US is [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IYQhRCs9IHM).


	14. Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Carrie and Quinn adopt a dog.

They've talked about adopting a dog for some time but something else always come up and they never quite get around to going to the shelter. 

"It would be good for Franny to grow up with a dog," Carrie agrees after they move out of town in search of an almost bucolic existence away from the noise and craziness of the city.

"You're living on a farm?" Maggie asks her in consternation.

"It's not quite a farm," Carrie says, shaking her head. "More like … a place near a lake that happens to have a lot of space. Quinn tells it better," she says with a smile and Maggie looks unconvinced. Her younger sister has always been such an urbanite, it's hard to even imagine her in the suburbs let alone so far out of town.

One day on one of their walks, they discover the dog by the side of the road. He's been hit by a car, bleeding, broken and in a great deal of pain. Quinn braves being bitten, wraps him in his pullover and walks 2 miles with the dog in his arms to get him medical treatment.

The dog is of indeterminate origin – a bitza in the true sense of the word, so mixed up and intermingled that he doesn't know what he is or why. He's also clearly been abused by his previous owner. The vet can barely approach him to give him treatment and needs Quinn's help muzzling him and holding him down.

The dog's been cut, he's been burned, he's been beaten and kicked and he's afraid of the world, baring his teeth at everyone who approaches him. Quinn he tolerates but even he gets bitten once or twice before he learns the best way to approach him.

"It would be kinder to put him out of his misery," the vet tells him soberly even though he's fought so hard to save his life. "I've seen dogs like this – they've seen too much, suffered too much – you can never come back from that much suffering," he tells Quinn.

"Really." Quinn's voice is calm, matter-of-fact.

"And he's a biter … once a dog's bitten a human, it's hard to rehabilitate him."

Carrie looks over at Quinn. There's a muscle twitching in his jaw as he stares at the dog that's growling at him from the crate at the vet's surgery. The dog is hackling, baring his teeth, his tail low and stiff but Quinn crouches low and studies him for a long moment before glancing over his shoulder at Carrie.

"I'd never let him harm, Franny," he tells her.

"You don't have to tell me that," Carrie tells him, her smile crooked. She knows Quinn would give his life for Franny, a child who isn't even his own flesh and blood. 

"If he gets too much, bring him back here and I'll put him out of his pain," the vet tells Quinn who nods. 

Franny's delighted and absolutely fascinated by the dog. Quinn gives her naming rights and she calls him Dog simply because that's what he is.

Quinn takes Dog on a long line and they go out and sit in the field. Carrie and Franny follow, sitting a safe distance away under a tree to watch. They watch as Dog stands as far as he possible can from humans, body language tense, tail lowered and eyes wary. Quinn doesn't bother trying to lure him over with food or toys, merely sits in the field and waits until Dog approaches him and sniffs him warily.

A couple of weeks later and Dog's trotting by his side, at a safe distance but body language more relaxed and assured. Eventually, Quinn allows Carrie and Franny to approach, teaching Franny how to stay low, keep her voice gentle, hold out her hand for a sniff and how to step back if the body language is wrong.

It's hard for her. She wants to go in and cuddle Dog as though he's a toy but Quinn's very firm with her. "He's frightened, you have to go slow, Franny," Quinn tells her. Dog's kept in a secure part of the house away from Franny, who would like nothing better than to go and visit him.

From Dog, Franny learns not to stare directly into a dog's eyes and challenge it. She learns from her father how to be calm and still, how to give commands in a firm but gentle manner. 

"Why did he bite people, dad?" Franny asks Quinn curiously.

"If you corner a dog and give him nowhere to run, then you leave him with no choice except to fight – to bite," Quinn explains.

*

Carrie looks out the window of the house into the field where Franny and Quinn are throwing a ball for Dog. It's a reward following the training session in which Dog's learned how to sit, drop and stay. He's learned a recall as well – a low whistle from Quinn brings the dog running to his side. 

Carrie smiles as she sees the dog running along-side a delighted Franny.

"Dad – look at me, I can run faster than Dog!" she shrieks misguidedly, not realising that Dog is keeping pace with her and that if he wanted, he could outpace her with ease.

Dog swims with Franny in the lake under Quinn's watchful eye, patrols the house and proves to be better than any high tech alarm system that Quinn has installed. 

"No dogs on the furniture," Carrie says for the hundredth time as she walks past Quinn, Franny and Dog sprawled out on the sofa watching a movie. 

"OK," Quinn tells her agreeably.

"No dogs on the bed," Carrie tells them patiently when she comes to the bed and finds Dog sprawled out on the bed next to Quinn. At her stern look, Dog looks at her reproachfully and jumps down off the bed to go to his dog bed in the corner. Inevitably, when she wakes up in the morning she finds Dog curled upon their bed, snoring loudly.

The vet marvels at his progress. "Amazing, Peter. I could have sworn that he was past the point of no return, thank you for proving me wrong," he tells him as he gives him what is the start of many annual check-ups.

It would be hard to find a more devoted dog. He follows them everywhere devotedly – particularly Quinn. He is protective of Franny, obeys Carrie but loves Quinn, the man who saved his life.

*

Dog, like all dogs, could not live forever and in his golden years, his movements became slow and rheumy, his eyes clouded and dim. Carrie would sit on the ground and put her arms around him, feeling him pant his doggy breath against her chest as he stroked his head.

"How is Franny going to cope?" Maggie asks with concern.

"I'm more concerned about Quinn," Carrie says soberly.

When it's clear that Dog can stay with them no longer, when it hurts to breathe and he can no longer move, a stone-faced Quinn picks him up in his arms and Carrie drives them to the vet in silence. Franny is in the back-seat crying. They had debated whether or not to permit her to come but in the end, Quinn had pointed out gently,"She deserves to be allowed to say goodbye, Carrie."

They sit under a tree at the vet's surgery with Dog. He musters up one last burst of strength to wag his tail and lick their hands. Carrie and Franny kiss his white muzzle and they watch the life leave his tired eyes. Carrie stares at Quinn's face. His eyes are bright with unshed tears, his light eyes staring blindly into the air.

He sits under the tree and holds Dog until he is cold. Quinn's never been a loquacious man, but he is almost silent for a week after Dog dies although he offers comfort to both Carrie and Franny.

Franny's face is blotchy and red. "I never want another dog," she tells her parents. "It hurts too much … do you hear? Never."

Carrie strokes her daughter's hair and kisses the top of her head. 

"It's about enjoying the time we get with the ones we love, Franny," Quinn tells her. "Love is precious – it's a gift… "

"Are you talking about dogs or people, dad?" Franny demanded, staring at him narrowly.

He draws both Carrie and Franny into his arms and they hold one another for a long moment. 

"Does it really matter?"


	15. Birthdays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Birthdays" has been, by far, the most popular prompt I have received for this pairing. The reason it has taken me so long is that it was actually very difficult to try to come up with something for it that's consistent with the show/their characterisation and doesn't turn them into generic, schmoopy romantic characters who don't look, sound, behave, feel like Carrie and Quinn anymore ... 
> 
> For the people who wanted birthday fic, I hope this is ok ... As is usually the case, it's probably not exactly what you were thinking of ...

Maggie has always put on excellent birthday parties for Josie and Ruby. Jumping castles, fancy cakes, fairy dresses and one year a Frozen-themed party.

For Maggie's birthday, they'll go out to a fancy restaurant for dinner where she can order her favourite imported wine, get a little tipsy while wearing a tiara with fake diamonds in it and then proceed to talk too much.

Celebrating Carrie and Franny's birthdays has always been simple, too. Lots of laughter, lots of food, a huge cake and lots of presents…

Quinn on the other hand is a completely different matter and they have never celebrated his birthday.

"This isn't your actual birthday?" she asks him blankly, staring down at his driver's licence during their first year when the date she has always assumed is his birthday is fast-approaching. "It's the same date on your passport and all your paperwork and - "

"It was a date that was assigned to me," he tells her, his expression closed and distant. Images of ill-fitting clothing, jeering, cuts and bruises that never heal - and being moved from home to home flood his mind and his mouth tightens.

"Do you even know when your real birthday is?" she asks curiously and he shakes his head slowly.

"Wouldn't have a fucking clue, sorry," he tells her with a hint of apology in his husky voice. 

She waits for a moment before asking. "Are you ever going to tell me – "

"Unlikely," he interjects before she can finish speaking. 

She knows not to push and he knows that one day he's going to have to talk to her about it. 

She's learned that Quinn can't be forced to talk, that the words will just come out of him when he's ready – considered and introspective. 

He's learned that he can't hide anything from Carrie and that eventually she'll find out everything about him. The thought doesn't terrify him as much as it once did.

They're not going to talk about his past today, though. He doesn't want to see the pity in her eyes when she learns that he's never actually had a birthday party, that by the time he grew old enough to have friends who might have cared to celebrate, he no longer gave a fuck about such meaningless rituals. Past 'birthday gifts' have consisted of a Glock or a sniper's scope from the friend of his foster father – definitely not the stuff of festivities.

They're both lying on the bed having collapsed onto it after a long day at work. Both are still in their work clothes having made a very limp attempt at paper, rock scissors to decide who's going to cook dinner. After three impasses ending with 'rock', they give up and just lie there staring at the ceiling.

"I have an idea," Carrie announces suddenly.

"Really," Quinn comments, raising an eyebrow and turning his head towards her. Most people asked 'really' in an interrogative fashion, with a distinct rising inflection. In contrast Quinn's 'really' is almost flat and confirmatory in its monotonal delivery – but it's still a question.

Her mouth is inches from his but he wants to hear what she has to say, so he resists the temptation to kiss her.

"Don't shoot me down before you've heard it, Quinn," she retorts. "Clearly the date you put on your official documents brings back some bad memories for you."

"Thank you for the psychoanalysis, Ms Mathison," he mutters ironically.

She rolls onto her stomach, props herself up on her elbow and stares into his eyes. "So with rescue dogs – they don't know when they were actually born…"

"You're comparing me to a dog?" he asks, sounding amused. To be honest, the analogy is a lot closer than she might think.

"They can't celebrate an actual birth date, so they celebrate the Gotcha Day instead – the day the dog's adopted and gets a new family." Carrie sounds very pleased with her neat solution.

"What day are you suggesting is my Gotcha Day?" Quinn asks her curiously and smiles as a look of puzzled confusion floods over her face.

"Um … I don't know …maybe – I don't know … the day you decided you felt something for me – how does that sound?" she suggests.

"And what day is that?" he asks her, staring up into her eyes.

She frowns. "Well – first kiss but that was my dad's funeral so let's not make that your Gotcha Day."

"You seriously think that that was the first time I started feeling something for you?" he asks her incredulously. "I feel and kiss on the same day?"

"You're a man of action?" she asks. "I don't know … it doesn't really seem right for me to pick a day … when you came back to Islamabad?"

"Earlier," he tells her, pushing her hair back from her face and kissing her jaw as his hands come up to cup her face.

She frowns. "When you shot me," she tells him witheringly, even as she allows herself to be drawn towards him. 

"Geez Carrie," he mutters thickly, even as his hand has moved between her legs and is making her whimper.

"Even earlier than that? Are you serious?" she demands incredulously and he shakes his head as he rolls her onto her back and slides her slacks and underwear down her legs. "When you visited me at the hospital," she guesses triumphantly and he gives a shaky laugh as he pulls off his own clothes and moves between her bare legs.

"Still wrong," he tells her with a rueful laugh in his eyes.

"Shit Quinn, don’t try and make out like you've had feelings about me forever," she tells him fiercely.

"Sometimes it definitely feels that way," he tells her and watches the way the breath catches in her throat as he enters her. He loves to watch the way pleasure moves across her face as she tightens around him. Her face, always expressive, hides nothing from him during sex.

To his complete and absolute horror, tears slide out of her eyes silently. "Jesus Carrie, do not cry while we're fucking – it's very demotivating."

She arches up against him and gives a shaky laugh. "I feel unworthy – if you really have cared about me that long …"

That makes him laugh and he rolls onto his back, pulling her with him as they remain joined. "You should feel bad," he tells her. "You can start making it up to me from now," he tells her.

She laughs – and does.

*

His first Gotcha Day is an event to remember with so many of their friends and acquaintances attending that they spill out into the yard. Even Lockhart shows up with his wife to Quinn's surprise. 

"Balloons and streamers, Peter? Should I be expecting pass the parcel and pin the tail on the donkey as well?" Lockhart asks him sardonically.

"Blame Carrie – she's gone a bit retro in her party planning," Quinn remarks.

"I've only heard of Gotcha Days in the context of adoptions and these days with all of that fucking PC bullshit, I didn't realise that people still used the term."

"I'm told that they still use it for rescue dogs," Quinn tells him with a grin as he hands him another beer.

"I sense the fell hand of Mathison in there. Well – in any case, congratulations. You're a good man, Peter," Lockhart tells him and means it. While they still clash, the two have developed a mutual understanding and appreciation of the other.

Quinn cuts the huge cake baked for him by the Mathison sisters and poses for the photographs - Carrie stuffs a huge piece of chocolate in his mouth as the camera clicks. He licks the frosting from her lips and finds himself smiling at the ridiculousness of it all.

"Is this – ok?" Carrie asks him later, coming up to stand behind him and slide her arms around his waist, her cheek resting on his back.

"What are you doing back there?" he demands and turns around so that he can hug her properly.

"I still feel … " she fumbled with her words. "Shit…guilty …" she mutters. "Don't laugh."

He laughs and lowers his head to kiss her. "Don't feel guilty Carrie. I don't give a fuck that you haven't always loved me." Her eyes widen in shocked surprise. "…as long as you always do."

That makes her smile. "That I _can_ do," she tells him and for Quinn, that's more than enough.


	16. Tuna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: _Electricity goes out during a storm and they have to eat tuna from the can._

"Fuck," they both mutter simultaneously as everything goes black as soon as they step into the house.

"Looks like it's the whole street," Quinn comments, standing in the doorway and staring down the blackened street that is completely devoid of any lighting.

"Great," Carrie comments, Franny on her hip as she glances around the darkness of the apartment. She waits as Quinn retrieves candles and brings them into the kitchen, the candle-light casting a warm glow on the walls and interesting shadows on his face.

"I'm sure everyone's calling, but I'll call to see how long it's likely to be," he tells her and she nods, putting Franny in a high chair. He returns half an hour later.

"They say it's going to be several hours at the earliest before the power's back."

"Great," she comments. 

"Want to go out for dinner?"

"I'm exhausted …" she tells him. "We can just snack on something we have in the house," she suggests and he shrugs.

"Fine by me," he tells her but then looks down at the object she retrieves from the pantry and tosses at him.

"Tuna?" he asks, staring down at the tin without much enthusiasm in his face.

"Yeah. That ok?"

"Fine," he mutters. 

"You don't like tuna?"

"It has negative connotations."

"You have negative connotations associated with a tinned fish …" Carrie questioned, looking very puzzled. Before he can answer she goes rummaging through the pantry again and tosses a box of crackers at him. "Any traumas associated with crackers?" she asks.

"Well there was that time in Kinshasa …" he starts to joke and they sit with Franny and eat by candle-light as Carrie adds tuna to the long list of questions she has about Peter Quinn.


	17. How did you meet?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> enjoyingjoy submitted the following prompt:
> 
>  
> 
> _C &Q are attending some random wedding & someone asks them casually how they ended up together.They look at each other & realize that they never actually talked about it. Their stories’ beginning points are different but end up in the hug at F’s funeral._

"Who is this again?" Quinn mutters under his breath as they arrive at the wedding.

"Lucy? She works in the East Asia Division?" Carrie whispers. "We borrowed her for a few months to help out with the Taliban heroin trafficking investigation."

"Oh – right," Quinn remembers and walks forward with a smile on his face to hug the beaming Lucy and kiss her on the cheek.

"Congratulations, Lucy," he tells her.

"Lance," Lucy reminds him as he falters slightly when shaking the hand of her new husband. 

"Next time we get invited to one of these, we say no, ok?" he tells her many hours later as they are on the dance floor to avoid the inane conversations around them.

"We had to come – she helped us out of a really tight spot, Quinn," Carrie reminds him, resting her cheek against his jacket front as his arms tighten around her. Neither of them really knows how to dance but by this point in the evening, it doesn't really matter. The 'dancers' left on the dance floor are barely managing more than a shuffle anyway so Carrie and Quinn fit right in with what is little more than a 'moving hug.'

"What a lovely couple you make," someone remarks as they walk off the dance floor. "Myrna – Lucy's mother," the woman with the blue rinse through her hair reminds them helpfully when they both look at her blankly.

"Thank you," Carrie says politely.

"And how did you both meet?" Myrna asks them, her eyes glancing back and forth between them curiously.

"Through work," they both answer at the same time.

Myrna nods. "Just like Lucy and Lance. I suppose it's the modern way to do things these days. Tell me – was it love at first sight?" she asks mischievously.

The question makes both Carrie and Quinn stare at one another in horrified silence.

"No," Quinn denies.

"Not at all," Carrie affirms fervently.

"Ah …but then love blossomed gradually at the workplace – how romantic," Myrna declares.

"Very romantic," Quinn mutters in a slightly strangled voice. 

"Come and sit with me," Myrna orders them and Carrie bites her lip at the swear word that Quinn mutters under his breath. She pours champagne for both. "Cheers," she tells them animatedly, more than a little tipsy already.

"Cheers," Carrie and Quinn toast mechanically.

"Who fell in love first?" she demands. "Was it you, young man?" she asks, peering at Quinn owlishly. "Did you worship her from afar? Unrequited love?"

"Yeah, like that," Quinn mutters, looking as though he would rather be anywhere but where he was.

"So sad," Myrna says mournfully.

"She barely knew I existed," Quinn offers.

"Quinn – that is not true!" Carrie protests glaring at him.

"She was in love with someone else," Quinn states inarguably.

Myrna's eyebrows shot up with interest. "Did your other young man know?" she demands and Carrie shook her head. 

"He waited until the other guy was … out of the picture," Carrie tells her, her eyes shooting daggers at Quinn.

"So patient and devoted – so unusual in this day and age," Myrna breathes.

"Yeah he's a real saint," Carrie mutters.

"What took you so long to realise that he was the one?" Myrna asks curiously. "He's so handsome and strong-looking." She reaches out and squeezes the bicep of Quinn's right arm. 

Quinn barely notices, he's busy waiting for Carrie's answer. She drains the rest of her champagne and stares at her glass fixedly for a moment. "Sometimes it takes loss or something momentous to make us realise that we have something truly precious," Myrna tells her earnestly, ditching Quinn's bicep and reaching out to take Carrie's hand in hers.

"It's possible that I took him for granted for a while," Carrie concedes reluctantly. "He was always there for me … supportive … never letting me down … " She finds herself thinking about standing in the middle of a mob in the middle of Islamabad, staring around wildly – terrified at the knowledge that Quinn was going to take down Haqqani and at the same time get himself killed.

"And then?"

"One day when I thought I might lose him … I realised how important he was to me," Carrie admits and Quinn tilts his head to one side and raises an eyebrow at her quizzically.

"How lucky you realised before it was too late."

"Yes, very lucky," Carrie remarks, staring into Quinn's eyes. His eyes are dark as they study her face closely.

"He's a keeper," Myrna tells Carrie emphatically. "Hold onto him with both hands and don’t let go." Quinn's smirking. A smirk that fades when Carrie points out,

"Well – there was the time he shot me …" Myrna almost falls off of her chair but before she can ask any more questions, Lucy calls for her from across the room.

"Ah, I must go – but it was lovely meeting you both," Myrna tells them, kissing them both on the cheek and disappearing in a heavy cloud of Chanel. "I could have sworn she said … shot …" Myrna mutters under her breath.

"Fuck me," Quinn mutters, watching leave. "The CIA should employ her to act as an interrogator."

"Yeah, no shit," Carrie agrees, watching the woman rush across the room to her daughter.

"Islamabad?" he asks her abruptly and she reaches out for jug of iced water and fills their champagne glasses.

"Yeah."

"Is that when you knew?" he asks her and she closes her eyes for a moment. 

"I think knew subconsciously for a while … but I didn't really know it till then … When did you know how I felt?" she asks him suddenly and he shrugs.

"When I saw how happy you were to see me at your dad's funeral …"

"I was so fucking happy to see you," she remembers, her mouth curving in a smile. "Jeez Quinn, I was so late to come to the party."

"Better late than never," he replies, rising to his feet.

"And you shot me so that makes us even," she points out.

"Are you going to hold that against me forever?"


	18. Pocket Dial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fic by AstronautMikeDexter about pocket-dialling made me think of this ... Just being a bit silly :)

Carrie's cell rings. She fumbles through her purse, pulling it out and staring at it quizzically, surprised to get a call from Quinn.

It's the weekend and she's at the office finishing off a report that can't be finished from home because of its classified nature. Quinn is at home with Franny.

"Yeah?" she answers and then frowns when there is no reply. "Quinn?" she asks.

In return, she hears the muffled sound of Franny laughing. "Ouch, that's right," she hears Quinn speaking. "Remember – you must eliminate all superfluous movements – in a real situation every second counts."

Carrie's eyebrows shoot up in astonishment as she hears Franny making enthusiastic sounds. "Franny – don't turn your back on the opponent … ummm … don’t spin so much or you'll keep falling over ..."

Carrie's lips twitch. "That's right – never stop until the opponent is neutralised …" She leaves the phone on, sitting on her desk as she continues to type the report and hears the sounds of Quinn and Franny apparently demolishing a murderous cushion.

*

When she arrives home, Franny's having her afternoon nap and Quinn is in the study. "So – any reason why you've opted to teach our two year old [Krav Maga](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Krav_Maga) instead of say … judo or wing chun?" Carrie asks him, sitting on the edge of his desk, her leg swinging casually.

"If it's good enough for the Israeli Defence Force, it's good enough for – " he stops abruptly. "How did you know?" he asks her.

She holds up her cell in her hand and tilts her head at him. "You pocket-dialled me ...I was serenaded with sounds of violence – I was shocked not to find bodies when I came home."

"No sofa cushions were killed during training," he assures her, holding up his hands, his grey eyes amused.

"You couldn't just entertain her with Dora the Explorer?" Carrie asks him, raising an eyebrow.

"Hey, developing her situational awareness is critical for her to understand her surroundings, learning to understand the psychology of a confrontation and identifying potential threats before an attack occurs …"

"She's going to day-care next year, not the Middle East, Quinn," Carrie reminded him with a smile.

"I guess if you're not going to let me teach her, I'll have to teach you instead," he muses, rising to his feet and approaching her.

"Is that a fact?" she asks him. 

"Yes … I'll have to teach you about your body's most vulnerable points," he muses.

Carrie smiles as his mouth slides over the pulse in her throat, along her jaw before covering her mouth with his.

"I surrender," she tells him, sliding her arms around him and pulling him down to the floor of the study.


	19. Food Poisoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So ... you can't get more mundane than food poisoning, so here's a silly scribble for that.
> 
> indigovioletstargazer already wrote about the flu, so I couldn't nab that one :)

Carrie and Quinn lie in bed weakly.

"Shit, Carrie …" Quinn mutters limply.

"Literally," she moans, her face covered in perspiration. 

"Did you call in sick for the both of us?" he asks her suddenly.

"Yeah – told them we were missing the debrief because of you."

"What?" he demands incredulously, grimacing at the stabbing pain in his gut.

"I'll bet it was that Indian restaurant you insisted on us trying, I knew that it was …"

"No fucking way," he disagrees before bolting out of the room for a few minutes, returning later, even paler than when he left. "It could have been anything …" he protests, dropping back onto the bed.

"No … it was that restaurant," Carrie affirms from where she is curled up in the foetal position. "Pass me the bucket?"

Quinn hands her the bucket. "It's not that bad," he tries to tell her as she retches. "I had much worse food poisoning when I had roadside _maraq_ in Mogadishu …" 

"Well when I was in Beirut, I was hospitalised for three days because of botulism …"

"Well this is nothing compared to Caracus – "

"Guys - this is not a competition," Maggie calls out from the other room where she is packing Franny's things. She walks into the bedroom and surveys them both sympathetically.

"She started it," Quinn protests.

"He's the one bragging about Mogadishu," Carrie argues.

Maggie holds up a hand. "I'm taking Franny home with me until you get over this. I've put chicken soup, Gastrolyte and plain rice in the kitchen. Make sure you stay hydrated and call me if you need me."

As she leaves the room, Maggie rolls her eyes in affectionate exasperation - she can hear Carrie muttering something about a _kofta_ that went horribly wrong in Kabul …


	20. Groceries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An entirely non-serious and fluffy prompt fill. Quinn and Carrie grocery shopping has been [another popular prompt](http://koalathebear.livejournal.com/1481687.html) :)

"Milk?" Quinn questions as they pass the dairy products.

"Yeah, we're almost out," Carrie says absently as she pushes the trolley. Franny's sitting in the baby-seat at the front of the shopping cart surveying the world with unblinking curiosity.

"We don't need any more instant noodles, Quinn," she tells him as he tosses half a dozen packets into the trolley.

"We can never have enough," he disagrees.

They walk down the bathroom products aisle and he puts some razors, shaving cream and a few packets of tooth paste. As they pass the feminine hygiene products, Carrie smothers a smile as Quinn automatically reaches for a box of her preferred brand of tampons and puts them into the trolley. In the early days he had handled the box gingerly and with great wariness – as if menstruation was contagious. 

"What are you smiling about, Carrie?" he asks her curiously.

"Nothing," she denies, shaking her head. "Can you grab the trolley for a moment? I need to back-track – I forgot to get some spaghetti."

"OK," he says replies and comes to stand in front of Franny who grins at him. "That's right, it's me – the better driver," he tells her in a conspiratorial whisper. "I don't take those corners like a maniac – the way she drives, we should put a helmet on you."

"I heard that," Carrie calls over her shoulder as she walks off.

Quinn is standing and chatting with Franny companionably when he looks up and freezes momentarily. He can see a woman standing a short distance away from him. Slim, attractive, her long blonde hair in a pony tail she's been eying him speculatively, glancing at him and back at Franny. He knows that look. He's been caught out before.

"Franny – don't make any sudden moves," he tells her in a low, conspiratorial voice. He starts to turn the trolley around and head in the direction of the fresh produce. He glances up at the convex mirror to his left and sees the woman following them. "Shit, we've picked up a tail," he tells the toddler.

Coming to a halt in front of the fresh fruit, he finds his way blocked by another woman he recognises from a previous grocery trip. "Hi there," she greets him with an overly familiar smile, tilting her head in a way that's designed to be provocative. This one's a brunette with a pixie cut and huge blue eyes. "Your little girl is so cute," she coos, pinching Franny's cheeks. Franny recoils.

Glancing up at another convex mirror, he sees that the blonde has stopped and is glaring in the direction of the brunette. To his left, Carrie's standing a short distance away holding a packet of spaghetti and watching him with raised eyebrows. "Help me," he mouths at her.

"Umm, excuse me," he says, pushing the trolley past the disappointed pixie in the direction of Carrie while casting furtive glances up at the convex mirrors.

"I leave you for one minute and come back to find strange women pinching Franny's cheeks and perving on you," she comments dryly.

"Blonde at six o'clock, brunette's closing in from the left – if we turn right now, we can make it to the check-out and get to safety," he tells her in a voice that's only half-joking.

"Want me to call for exfil assistance?" she asks him, looking amused.

"How fast can you get a hellfire missile here?" he asks her in a serious voice.

"Quinn, they think you're a single dad with a cute kid … fucking irresistible."

"Very funny – can we go now?" he demands, shooting another glance at the convex mirror. He can see that both women are watching from a distance, shooting daggers at Carrie whom they mistakenly assume to be a fellow predator. 

"What will you do if I get you out of this?" she asks him casually.

"Anything," he promises her, a wicked smile curving his mouth.

Carrie throws the spaghetti in the trolley, walks up to him and very deliberately puts her arms around his neck and draws his mouth down on hers. After a moment's surprise – Carrie's not usually one for public displays of affection – Quinn throws caution to the wind and goes for it, returning the kiss with his customary hunger.

She pulls back with a laugh. "Jesus Quinn, you did not just grab my ass in public," she exclaims as he makes a sound of frustration when she pulls away from him.

Quinn glances over at the two women. Pixie is pouting and storms off while the blonde tosses her ponytail over one shoulder before walking away.

"Give me Afghanistan any day," he mutters and Carrie laughs despite herself.


	21. Camping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carrie, Quinn and Franny set off on a camping trip ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “There is no point in hurrying because you are not actually going anywhere. However far or long you plod, you are always in the same place: in the woods.”  
> ― Bill Bryson, A Walk in the Woods: Rediscovering America on the Appalachian Trail

"It'll be fun," Quinn tells her firmly as they load up the car with camping supplies. "And a great experience for Franny."

"What if we meet a bear?" Carrie asks and Quinn shoots her a look. 

"Carrie, we've been through this before. We'll hang our packs high off the ground to avoid attracting the bears. And if we meet a bear – "

"I know, I know – do not approach it … proximity to a bear may provoke aggressive behaviour, we are to back away slowly, increasing the distance between us and the bear, while watching the bear at the same time."

"You _were_ actually listening to my safety talk," he says approvingly as Carrie straps Franny into the baby seat in the back seat.

Carrie rolls her eyes. "Like I had a choice." She continues to recite. "The bear will _likely_ do the same, however, if the bear continues to approach without vocalising or swatting, try to change your direction. If that doesn’t ward off the bear, stand your ground," the tone of her voice is that of someone who is reciting something from memory – which is probably because Quinn made her memorise it in the weeks leading up the camping trip.

"And?" he prompts her.

"If the bear gets closer, shout at it, act aggressively and try to intimidate the bear, making the group seem as large as possible. Throw rocks and use whatever we have to ward it off." She the mutters _sotto voce_ ,"It is not recommended that you try to run away from the bear at this point – although if it gets to that point, we're probably all dead."

"Shit Carrie, do you know how many people camp along the Appalachian Trail without being killed by bears? You were in more danger of being killed in Kabul, Beirut and Islamabad – even DC for that matter."

Carrie wasn't sure what was worse, the thought of aggressive bears on the A.T. or the fact that there wouldn't be flushable toilets or showers along the way …

"Hear that Franny? Daddy thinks it will be fun to hang out with rattlesnakes, copperheads, ticks, mosquitoes and black flies."

"You've been reading too much Bill Bryson, Carrie," Quinn tells her with exasperation. "Also, can I point out – he clearly survived the trek, otherwise he'd never have published his book."

"Your daddy's always a know-it-all," Carrie tells Franny over her shoulder.

"Don't take sides, Franny," Quinn tells the baby.

"Hear that Franny? Daddy's just volunteered to wash all of your diapers during the trek."

Quinn laughs and so does Carrie. For all her bitching and moaning, she knows they'll be safe and she knows they'll have fun.


End file.
